


Don't Wanna Touch But You're Under My Skin (Deep In)

by JenovaVII



Series: almost turning changes nothing; turning changes everything [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Banter, Bisexuality, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e05 Venomous, Family, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Heartbreak, Hugs, Humor, M/M, Moving On, Pack Dynamics, Pop Culture, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Slow Build, Stiles' POV, Unrequited Stiles/Lydia, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, wolves out of the bag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenovaVII/pseuds/JenovaVII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Canon-AU for 2x05) "I'm gonna have the talk with my dad today―no idiot, not The Talk, the talk! The―" Stiles does a make-believe clawing motion and makes some human Ggrrrr. "―talk. That one. Jesus Christ, Scott."</p><p>In which: being a Stiles isn't easy. A Stiles gets to be immortally awesome but he also gets to tell his friends and his family that he just got an upgrade of the, erm, Canis variety. That's how a Stiles rolls, man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Wanna Touch But You're Under My Skin (Deep In)

**Author's Note:**

> Un-revised. I haven't been able to acess a computer for a while and I just wanted to post this really bad so any and every typos and mistakes will be checked as soon as I can. (:

 

After being bitten all it had taken had been minutes, less than half-an-hour, really, for Stiles to fall asleep. That's why it is in to way, manner or form his fault or responsibility that he wakes up like... like he wakes up.

Which is, and Stiles is only disclosing it for imaginary outsiders' curious, guttery minds, not because he has this thing where he talks to himself by way of though-processing obvious facts, all up-close and cross-limbed with Derek in the morning. A squint at a bright-lights alarm clock on the bedside table tells Stiles it's 07:28 AM.

They'd fallen asleep on Stiles' twin bed and, being the two of them two grown-ass boys who occupy a certain amount of space, space that would usually encompass the whole area of the bed plus some imaginary extension of it―well.

That being said this is how their first morning-after begins and will affect and forever mold all possible future mornings-after. Between the two of them. Forever. In a world where "morning-after" realistically means "the morning following the previous night" and nothing else.

It's early, Stiles' necessary sugar-intake has yet to be absorbed into his cells, but. There are already three facts at the tip of his tongue that he feels like stating ASAP:

1\. There had been no sexy-times, bad touches or even innuendos of any kind last night (ricochet-smooch-thing notwithstanding);

2\. Stiles is clearly the big-ass freaking spoon, and he absolutely does not pump his fist into the air like a pathetic idiot that he absolutely is not. His arms and legs are carelessly splayed over Derek's middle and Derek's own legs, with not an once of regard for the other's presence in his bed whatsoever;

3\. Derek talks in his sleep―mumbles. He _mumbles_ incoherencies that not Stiles' dynamite-like brain nor his pillow, which, BTW, had been _snatched_ from him by a certain someone sometime during the dark, can translate. The fluffiest pillow in world to sleep hugging and cuddling with! _Stiles'_ pillow!

The poor pillow, obviously enough, a genderless pillow and Curly Muffin Stilinski by name, is being _talked into_ and _gnawed at_ because Derek doesn't only speak _Wingdings_ , _no_ ―and _that_ , that is a commendable achievement by itself indeed, GO DEREK. He also _chews_ on his sleeping-aid accessories. In this specific case―this very, _very_ specific case― _Stiles'_ sleeping-aid accessories. Stiles' _favorite_ sleeping-aid accessories. Accessories that now have dog slobber all over them.

So. Not. Awesome.

Still, Stiles remembers Derek having had the preoccupation to take the Camaro back to his house, even if too look after his own hide, for the most part, and come back on-foot to keep an eye on Stiles all night, just in case. It would _not_ have been pretty had the Sheriff recognized such sleek and charming specimen of a car, parked in his driveway, upon his arrival. That it would not, nay sir.

Then Derek _moves_.

"Stiles. I can _feel_ you _thinking_."

And Derek talks, too. Awake now. Great.

"Ye-hey... there," Stiles blurts and scrambles awkwardly to get up from Derek and from the bed, all at the same time. He's that good at multitasking.

He racks the curtains open and the room floods with light and with the low rumbling sound of Derek's displeasure.

Stiles is so not apologizing for that. Rise and shine!

But he _is_ about to say something, maybe ask "Hey Derek, s'my bed comfortable, at least more comfortable than the hard mattresses or the floor you tend to sleep on, like an abandoned overgrown-pup, am I right?" or _anything_ , really, to abstract Stiles, abstract _Derek_ and breach The Awkward.

Because Stiles doesn't _care_ , he's used to being erratic and _Derek_ 's used to Stiles being erratic and what they're both not used to is to neither being snarking at the other.

Therefore, intervention. This situation is in need of urgent intervention.

Which Sheriff Stilinski unknowingly and so helpfully provides.

"Your dad, he―" "My dad―!"

""―'s awake...""

Derek doesn't outright smile or anything close to it but he seems pleased. "Nice hearing."

" _Gee_ , thanks," says Stiles jokingly and then adds, more seriously, "And _thank you_."

Derek doesn't say anything to that, doesn't even dismiss it as nothing of importance, so they stare at each other for a moment that stretches for a while.

There starts to arouse some shuffling and to occur movement in one of the other rooms so Stiles jumps in the same spot and goes to spy the corridor from behind the door (force of the habit, okay?) before quickly retrieving Derek's clothes from the drier in the bathroom and returning to his bedroom just as quickly.

Derek's already out of Stiles' sweatshirt and has his thumbs about to delve into the pants' waistband. Stiles leaves the clothes on the bed and lets Derek to do his, uh, thing which is... finishing getting undressed and then dressed and, yeah, as he himself starts digging into his drawers. He pulls out a dark T-shirt with _Invader Zim_ 's logo in garring colors and pulls it over his head, getting into a bit of trouble with the collar until his head finally pops through the hole and if he had longer hair it'd be in one hell of a disarray. 50 points for the buzz-cut.

Stiles asks Derek if he wants to borrow some underwear or "Oh, oh! Unless... do you usually go commando, or somethin―?"

Yeah. And gets a perfectly solid, balled-up pair of sweatpants in the back of the head for that one. That's awrighty. Stiles, he. He deserves that one, yuh- _P_!

Stiles gets his blue boxers and jeans up with a jerky pull and turns around to watch Derek buckling his thick, worn belt, so.

(Belt which: Stiles doesn't see any real use for. Derek's pants are already as tight as they can be without squashing his very important and easily squashable items. Any tighter and they'd look like they'd been painted on Derek's skin.)

So that answers the question. The commando question. _Definitely_ , Stiles muses. Interesstiiing― _not_. Not at all interesting. For Stiles. _Nada_.

Derek fucking _finally_ puts his button-up shirt on, where it should be, covering all of his until-then-uncovered bits of. Body heat. Meat. Shit! Ugh, because... because they're still not safe from bubbling up some pneumonia! That! Ha.

...Can werewolves even get pneumonia? Surely not, right? So Derek's definitely safe.

But anyway! Dressed. Dressed, Derek should be _always_ dressed, never undressed. Yes. Just to be safe. For Derek to be safe. From the, um, pneumonia. It might super-hyper-mega-fastly evolve and suddenly have the power needed to perforate even supernatural creatures' incredibly high defenses, man. Stiles _knows_ viruses, knows how the nasty tiny little bugger things work. They play _dirty_.

...Wait a minute. Just. Juuuust. WAIT A MINUTE!

Werewolves can't get sick like humans do, the immune system is different and much fiercer in defending itself against outside threats; outside threats being a category where virus and bacteria enter, category which they are part of and―and―and―

―and _guess_ _who's a_ _ **werewolf now**_ , HA!

Stiles, _Stiles_ is a were—holy damn—wolf. Oh God. _Oh_ _ **God**_.

Freakin' _awesome_ , dude.

"Stiles."

"Hn," Stiles answers dreamily.

"You do realize you're saying and _expressing_ all that out loud."

"... Derek," Stiles lets out in a disapproving-sounding sigh. "Thanks for ruining my high. And please, intonate properly the end of your lines of speech so all the other nice people may understand what your intention is when you say them."

Derek shrugs. "You get me," he says, likes it's a perfectly acceptable explanation to his improper handling of social convention. Like, _Stiles gets it so it's fine, it's fine to be at Neanderthal-speaking ability level_ , he makes it look like. Which implies Stiles having the same skills therefore getting it. Hilarious. No, Derek, really.

Or―or even more like, _Stiles is such a freak he's fluent in Talking-Caterpillar-Eyebrows and Silencing-Grim-Lined-Mouths_. Which may seem a slightly better prospect to the random outsider but it's really, _really_ _ **not**_ **.**

No, no, no. Not this time. No such luck for you, buddy. "Yeah, well, I―"

 _"Stiles?"_ the Sheriff calls out from some other division, mere feet away from this den of... of something, that he's not yet supposed to see.

"Ookay, yoouuu―" Stiles voice _screeches_ as he points a long, corky finger at Derek and draws an invisible line from him to the window. Hah, the window! His window and Derek have a pretty steady relationship going on and―fuck it, there's no time for window jokes. Total waste of good material. "―have to _go_. _**Now**_ _,_ " Stiles stresses out.

Derek's already swinging a leg through the windowsill. "Come over after school," he tells Stiles. "I'll be letting the rest of the pack know about you before they leave their houses."

"'Kay." Stiles really has nothing else to say to that, does he?

"...Scott. He's going to smell you. He'll know." Derek pauses, gets his whole body out of the room and humps to the ground outside. He keeps talking, low, 'cause Stiles can hear him now, even if Derek whispers all the way from the other side of the road.

_"The only reason Scott and I couldn't tell Peter was the Alpha before was because he **really** was sick and decaying while being kept pumped full of drugs and attempting to heal one cell at a time. His scent was so mixed up and tampered with, it was impossible to single out one thing among it all."_

"Yeah..." Stiles says. "I'm just gonna pick Scott up at his house and tell him, tell him before we head off to school. It's better just to get it done with. It's gonna be... it'll be okay," Stiles murmurs, that last part more to himself than to Derek, as he walks down the flight of stairs to go make-juggle up some breakfast.

 _"You'll probably have no troubles but in case you feel your control shake just call me,"_ says Derek strictly, no place for disobedience. Stiles feels a stiffening along his spine and is that what it feels like to have―to need―to _want_ to obey the Alpha? Freakish, _brrrr_. Although it... it's nothing like mind-control, not even anything like the power of suggestion. It's something much, much more subtle and... and silky. It has a silk-like feeling to it. Like it's the right thing to do and it's easy. So easy. To just go "Yeah, okay" and _do it_.

And that's the last thing Stiles hears from Derek so he blinks himself out of it and he decides it must've meant "See you," under the first layer, and the next, somewhere in there, and squeaks a "See you later!" back. Aaannd. Stiles is feeling like a crazy person, like, not normal-crazy but cuckoo-crazy, talking to himself like this and―

(Ah. Only he already talked to himself before. A lot. Several times a day. Mmn. No matter!)

―and having voices floating like a million freed balloons inside his head and―

(Thank the Gods Stiles knows―has empiric proof!―said voices actually belong to actual living people; "voice" and "person", at the present time, 'cause it's still on the singular form though pretty soon's gonna sky-rocket to plural. Heh.)

―and then his dad pops up. No, _literally_ , like... like a pop-up window from some Russian or Chinese MMORPG, all unexpected and accompanied with a random loop of music tunes― _horrendous_ music tunes, JSYK. Pops up from behind him with a "What, you leaving already? Not going to eat?"

Thankfully, the Sheriff lacks the music tunes. Stiles had heard him coming so it's one less scare right there, but he also can't just tell his dad that that enthusiastic goodbye hadn't been directed at him. Instead, Stiles says he'll sneak something from Mrs. McCall fridge on the way and that, at least, is not a lie.

―

Being a Stiles isn't easy. A Stiles gets to be immortally awesome but he also gets to tell his friends and his family that he just got an upgrade of the, erm, _Canis_ variety. That's how a Stiles rolls, man.

That's why Stiles is seated on the Jeep for a while, torturing his bottom lip and drumming the pads of his thumbs on the wheel. And then he's knocking at Scott's door. And that, that on Scott's face, is such a familiar, heart-warming smile. And then...

... then Scott's taking a _whiff_ and going big-and-yellow eyes on him and snarling almost imperceptibly―almost imperceptibly for the yesterday-afternoon-Stiles; not so much for the right-now-Stiles.

And then it all stops. It just. It stops.

Scott's got the puppy eyes' goggles on, the ones he's always had since birth, the adorable brown ones, and he's saying, "Stiles..." and asking, hesitant―as if he already _knows_ , already has an idea, _and_ _also knows he_ _ **definitely won't want to know**_ , won't want to have it _confirmed_ ―, "What did you _do_?!"

He looks kind of hurt, kind of _really_ hurt. Not "Allison-broke-up-with-me-again" dimension of hurt but hey, it's near, it's something, right? Stiles thinks it's something. Let Stiles think it's something. Scott also looks _way_ more confused than usual but he's not mad, of that Stiles is sure, at least _not yet._ Which is good, great, fantastic! Because he will be, at some point, soonish and Stiles can definitely work with a not-mad-yet Scott. Yes.

Stiles tries on a smile that's probably a grimace, scratches his neck, feels a ragged nail. He nicks it off, spits it dryly to the side, and goes to open his mouth but his stomach _growls_. It. It— _all out—_ freaking _**gRrOowWLs**_!

Scott smiles wide, the stretching of muscles making his eyes squinty and tiny and God, Stiles loves the guy. Always will.

"Dude, if it's like this now and if you're gonna turn out being anything like me then..." says Scott. "... then there really is _no way_ my mom's gonna keep tolerating you eating here anymore."

They sit at the table and munch around their bowls of _Golden Grahams_ and Mrs. McCall rushes by them, pulling her hair high into a bun and telling them not to be late ("Late like me, like I'm already running―oh damnit!). She comes back and gets between their side-by-side chairs, kissing them once on the cheek and then licking her thumb to clean the smudge of light-brownish lipstick off of both their faces (" _Mooooom_!").

And, "We still need to have a due talk _about that key_ , Stiles," she calls out from the hall. Oohh boy.

As Stiles tells Scott how it all went down and Scott apologizes profusely for having treated Stiles' phone call like he did, tells Scott his reasons, tells him who was involved, as if that one wasn't the most obvious thing of all; as Stiles explains it all Scott experiences various stages of the emotional spectrum:

Pity; because Scott didn't want _this_ , still doesn't want this for himself, much less for his best friend.

Excitement; because being wolf pals―best wolf pals―with your already best buddy _is_ cool and it's cool like _hell_.

Fury; directed at Derek, who else? It's one more reason Scott effortlessly forces himself into adding to his Reasons to Hate Derek Hale list. And how does one even manage _that_ ―to force oneself to do or believe something with no apparent effort―Stiles has no friggin' clue.

Derek who's used Scott for his own interests, who'd promised to help him, who's told Scott to stay away from Allison time and time again for Scott's own good, who's taken from Scott his only chance to be human again, chance known by _Vox populi_ only and waaayy fishy-smelling, in Stiles' opinion. Stiles doesn't think such thing would've worked.

Derek who has now turned one of the three people Scott loves the most in the world and is taking him from Scott.

Derek who's making―who's already made―Stiles part of _his_ pack.

And Stiles makes Scott stop there, to reassure him. Because Scott may be forgetful of others but he doesn't do it on purpose, he's just... he's got a short attention span and is only usually mentally capable of paying attention to one thing―one person―one topic, properly, at a time.

He makes Scott stop, to remind him of their friendship; long and filled with memories and misadventures and laughter and so much fun and painful times too. All they've gone through, since... practically since they were born. And they've done it, managed it―all of it― _together_.

"And that's never gonna change, buddy, you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Yeah?"

"Loud 'n clear."

"Goody!" Stiles pipes.

"...Can we have that bro-hug now...?"

What does he do with Scott, who should be a mean wolf and is nothing but a huggy bear with, um, a few exceptions like, when there are big baddies threatening Allison or his mom or Stiles, or innocent people in general, is what Stiles wants to know.

They lunge ahead and cling like octopuses to each other for a couple of minutes.

"I don't trust Derek," Scotts mutters stubbornly, muffled on Stiles' plaid open-shirt. "But I trust you. And I know you've thought things through and... and you're good at that, thinking, you're really, really good at thinking and... and I know that you did what you thought you should do. What you _had_ to do."

Stiles pats Scott firmly on the back and pulls his face back. "Thanks. It's important, it means a lot to me that you're with me. On this."

"Of course I'm with you Stiles! I know I'm―that I suck, okay, sometimes, as a friend. But I'm not that bad... it's just. You know. And I'm cool, with you being, you know. If it's what you want. But I don't have to like it, right? That Derek― _ugh_ ―that he's your Alpha. 'Cause I don't like it one bit."

Stiles laughs and shoves against Scott. "Yeah, yeah. That's fine. S'gonna be fine, yeah?"

And it is going. Fine.

They've finally made it to the school gates after only one single and not completely inoffensive attempt of Scott to wolf-out. Stiles had to push and steady Scott back against the seat and wow, were-strength's pretty damn useful, had Stiles had it before some crappy situations could've been avoided. Stiles held Scott there as they passed some path that bled into the woods flanked by an ancient hedge, all the while Scott panting mildly and full of intent to just rush over and _blam_! and " _Deeereekk_!" his way through the Hale house and pick a fight with Derek.

Pick a fight with him both more seriously, the dead-serious seriousness kind, for ruining _Stiles_ ―for ruining Stiles' _life_ ―, and also a little bit for his whiny, wolfy hurt pride.

Scott also makes sure to leave his scent all over Stiles before they leave the cocoon that is the Jeep (he scrubs Stiles' shaved-head and hugs him again) and Stiles grabs Scott's arm as Scott's about to open the door and says, "Don't tell anyone. _Anyone_. Please, _please_ , don't tell Allison. Not yet. I'm gonna have the talk with my dad today―no idiot, not The Talk, _the talk_! The―" Stiles does a make-believe clawing motion and makes some human _Ggrrrr_. "―talk. That one. Jesus Christ, Scott."

Scott scrunches in a pouting face and more than displeased stance at the prospect of keeping things from Allison but Stiles inhales with his eyes closed and continues, "Anyway. So, until then... I'm also being, uh, "officially introduced" to the pack today, so. Be cool, okay? Just be _cooool_. And I promise after my dad's in on it, Allison's the next to know, alright? I'll tell her myself. Every single detail. Then you can rest your head on her lap and complain and moan about me and my new _status quo_ all you want."

"...Promise?" Scott asks, coy and a bit suspicious, going by the brow-raising. His jaw's getting so uneven with the pout that it almost looks perfectly even. Freeeaa~kyyy~~

"Promise."

"Um... Stiles?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"What's status... "cue-oh" mean?"

"Oh for the love of―" The Jeep starts _beeeep_ -ing as Stiles' forehead drops full-force right on the lever.

―

Derek having informed the pack of their new "brother" has apparently been a not-so-unwelcome-a-thing as Stiles had thought it would be regarded as.

Being a publicly acknowledged pack member with fur instead of a enemy-of-my-enemy-therefore-ally sidekick apparently includes having Erica & Co. all over Stiles. All over him and being playfully aggressive too, in the way Stiles had seen them interact with each other. Mostly Isaac and Erica, with the teasing aggressiveness; Boyd is more of a giant-in-the-corner kind though he _is_ self-spoken and absurdly intimidating of his own right.

They're wearing their leashes just fine, too, not saying anything that could get Stiles' wolf to feel like coming out to play. They actually seem―Stiles doesn't dare go with "happy" but they certainly are content. Stiles can _sense_ it coming off of them. Sense like... like he can see it, although not exactly with his eyes. See their connections in electromagnetic colorful fine strands, waving in the air and catch a hold of them, but not quite. Almost like light-gray-see-through smoke swirling around your finger, or. Or plasma.

It's a weird, unfamiliar feeling and Stiles is so not used to it. But it's not bad, not at all. It doesn't feel bad, it feels... odd. And warm. Odd and _close_ and warm. It must be what the bond between a pack feels like. It _has_ to be.

It's incredible, it's... panoptic. Makes Stiles wonder that if it's already this intense five minutes into his "metamorphosis" how much will it evolve, how will it affect him as it grows and expands. Makes him wonder if it's even _more_ , more of everything, in a pack of real wolves, wolves that have no humanity in them. How raw, and purely animal and instinctive it must be. It spreads a shiver through his whole body, and his brain sparks in curiosity and need for knowledge. Research. Stiles still has a long day ahead of him but he's gotta spare some time for Google.

There's also no tingling danger in the air of Jackson noticing anything's different with Stiles. Jackson who's sitting with Danny and Lydia and Scott and Allison and... well, and Stiles and Boyd and Isaac and Erica. Which is bizarre. _Cirque du Freak_ scale of bizarre, dude.

Scott's at one corner, giving all his attention and heart and eyes, the ones he only has for Allison, to said person. Allison who's both the target of his undying love _and_ the heiress to the Werewolf Hunting Business in town. Which is all kinds of OFMG and WTF, but. What to do, right? Le'them "Romeo and Juliet" away.

And, for once, Stiles is genuinely glad of Scott's obsessive behavior regarding his girlfriend.

That way there isn't an immediate danger of a rabid dog fight occurring in the middle of the school's canteen. Classes look like they'll be awesome, if awesome classes can also mean "nerve-inducing, tension-filled group of canine shape-shifters and other weird creatures and not-so-normal humans all shacked in the same four-walled area of m²."

Stiles is perfectly well-versed in the multiple and various significances of the word "awesome" and he's resolute: there is no such interpretation.

 _Holy crap_.

Stiles is _so_ gonna count it a win if they get so far as 3rd period with no casualties.

―

Stiles has just started the ignition when the doors open all, all but his, at the same time and the Jeep jumbles. Boyd sits by his side, Erica and Isaac get comfy in the back.

Oh-kay. Better to proceed with caution.

"Gentlemen. My lady. Wazzup?"

Relaxing against him, Boys reaches for the radio but Stiles fumbles with an out-stretched hand and tells him it isn't working with much more words than strictly necessary. He turns slightly on his seat to look calmly at Stiles and answers for them all, "Nothing much."

Stiles frowns, confused. "Isn't, uh, Derek coming to get you guys?"

"We're all going to the same place anyway," says Erica, humming some popular song and going through her purse.

Isaac's dangling his head between the two front seats, elbows supporting him. "We told Derek we'd go back with you," he says, with an intonation that means _obviously_ and that extreme up-turn at the corner of his mouth.

As if they're used to doing _this_ everyday or had, at the very least, done it once before. As if Stiles hadn't just been bitten yesterday evening and had yet to interact with the pack _as a wolf_ and in the presence of their fearsome―fearless―fear-inducing leader. There are a lot of fear-prefixed words, far too many that relate to Derek in some way. I'ts fucking creepy, I'm tellin' you.

And it is― _this_ , this is _so easy_ and abnormally _natural_ and it's freaking Stiles out _that it's not freaking him out_ _ **while he should be freaking the fuck out**_!

...Oh. Does Lycanthropy also, like, help him get his panicky-thingy under control? That's... that's nice, man. Incredibly _nice_. _I mean_ , Stiles tells himself, _it did take care of Scott's asthma_. But then again Erica may or may not still suffer the occasional seizure. Conflicting. Demands more research, because Derek's a born wolf, yeah, and what exactly has that helped until now? Yeah, 'though so. So it definitely demands more hours of Stiles staring at his laptop's obfuscating screen. Research he'll get on right away. After dropping these three puppies with their owner and―

(Waaaiit, does that mean that―no, just _no_ , but―is Stiles to be considered a... a "puppy" too, now? Derek's puppy? Oh my God. Oh. My. _God_. No kink intended, _absolutely_ _no kink intended, man_!)

―and driving back home to get grounded for life and beyond by his dad after telling him "Yo, Dad, guess what. I'm a werewolf! Fancy stuff, d'you think?" and then yeah, sure, he'll get on with that research. In secret. Secretly. With some secrecy. Stiles is super at all that. Super.

The trip to the woods is a bit stiff. It's all still so... so _so_ that Stiles can't pinpoint if this is actually happening or if it's his brain projecting some sort of alternate (and extremely positive, taking into account all the ways this could've gone―can still go) scenario.

Boyd reaches out for the radio again and this time takes it out and pokes it all over with a knowing eye, participating here and there on the Lacrosse-related discussion Isaac had initiated with Stiles while Erica rolls her eyes and curls her hair with her fingers.

Stiles says nothing when the radio doesn't return to the gaping hole and wayward wiring left in its wake and goes into Boyd's duffle bag with a _tuff_ instead.

―

When Stiles pulls by the Hale house, Derek's waiting for them on the porch. His face is impassive but there's no telling what the guy's thinking. He's not on edge, Stiles can tell and so can the others who go ahead and sit down by Derek. Erica, cross-legged on the porch. Boyd, heavily on a well-sawed chunk of firewood that's sitting on a patch of green grass, just before the stairs. And Isaac, hah, Isaac drops onto the earth and bed of leaves, practically at Derek's feet.

Stiles takes a moment to enjoy the picture the four of them make in front of him and photo-memorizes it. Every detail of it.

The dust from the remains of the old house on Derek's sneakers; the way Isaac curves his head and looks curiously at Stiles with a hint of an odd smile; the wind, weak but enough to sway Erica's long, blond locks from covering her eye; the serene posture of Boyd's and those strong forearms of his resting on his legs.

Stiles memorizes it in his mind. Because it's worth it. Because this, here, is a group of lonely people, people who know what real pain is. And these people are attempting to grow to be a family together, tumbling every step of the way, being klutzy, being obnoxious, being stupid.

Derek taking in a _Don't cross me, I'll make you cry_ posture and using extreme violence in training and not focusing, not nearly enough on sharing his experience only adds to the desperate need of the recently bitten to get a hold of the new power at their disposal, only magnifies to the odds of them turning the wrong way, making the wrong choices, of them not learning. Which leads to the spiking of Derek's already constant disappointment and grumpiness.

And Stiles realizes then that he's got one more reason for having taken the decision he did; one more reason besides the ones he's given himself, given Derek, given Scott, has yet to give his dad.

Although... perhaps Stiles is gonna have to take on a more, ah, motherly role first and then yes, dedicate himself to the position of "Strategist General" whole-heartedly. These kids need a second authority figure _bad_ , one who's got a bit more sensibility and empathy than One-Day-Stubble-or-Two-or-Three's-All-the-Same chief over there.

―

"So you're telling me... all this, "mountain lion" thing... that it's a no-brainer. In the way that it's totally untrue."

"Yeps."

"And instead, you're telling me to believe this... this theory of yours about _wolves_ ―"

" _Were_ wolves."

"And that _that's_ a no-brainer too, because it's the most obvious thing and everyone should have gone there, right away, no detours."

"Yep!"

"Stiles."

"Thaaat's me."

"I love you, kiddo. I really do. But there these morbid, uncountable points in time where I just want to wrap by hand around that neck of your and―"

"My neck _is_ sinewy."

"―just... just press oh-so-tightly over the wind-pipe and―"

"That's okay, Dad, it's nothing to worry about, it happens all the time with Homer and Bart, it's a father-son bonding thing. Tough love." Stiles makes the V sign to which his dad dead-pans, "That's for Peace & Love, son. There's no universal symbol for this "tough love" you're talking about. Or in a better wording: gratuitous, excused, domestic violence."

The Sheriff raises a hand to stop Stiles from elaborating from there and continues, " _And not only_ _that_ but you're telling me that, for the most part, these... _werewolves_ are _teenagers_ ―"

"Teen wolves, yeah."

"―who frequent _your_ school and happen to be in _your_ circle of friends―"

"Never one to get off-track, that's the Sheriff for ya, huh?"

"... _Stiles_." The Sheriff breathes out a long, suffering sigh. "I mean, I _knew_ something wasn't right. That mountain lion thing just..." He _tsk_ s, makes that almost-grimace of his and shakes his head slowly. "It just didn't _click_ for me. I even went and questioned that vet one more time but..." and he stops, because apparently he hasn't drunk enough yet to spill the details of an ongoing investigation to his underaged son. _Again_. And the Sheriff gives Stiles a look that says he hasn't forgotten _that_ episode either, whoops.

Even after knowing. Even after _knowing_! Stiles extrapolates. _KNOWING_! About the _things_! All of them!

"Oh, yeah. Scott's boss' actually on our side," Stiles starts, diffusing. "There was even a time at the beginning when we thought he might've been the Alpha but―"

"The Alpha. The one who killed all those people."

"Uh-huh. And he was kinda shifty and mysterious, and. But yeah. In the end he _was_ maybe more than a finger deep into the stuff already but not like that. He's on our side. Really great help, if it wasn't for him―"

" _Our_... side? Stiles?"

Stiles gulps. "Dad. I―"

"Since when?" the Sheriff interrupts, and his expression in a blank curtain. His heart had quieted down, has been beating calmly and quietly for a while into the conversation and Stiles can't get a read on him _at all_.

"Yesterday," Stiles answers honestly. "I asked Derek to give me the bite yesterday."

And Stiles doesn't explode in a continuum of explanations and reasons and excuses. He doesn't need to.

Not like he had to with Derek, because Stiles had wanted Derek to know, had wanted Derek to know he was willing and that he craved it and needed it and would use it well, because yes, the bite _is_ a gift, and that he wouldn't screw it up.

Not like he had to with Scott, because Scott may know Stiles well, really well, but Stiles wanted Scott to know that "they", that everything that is "them" and "theirs", that nothing would be lost.

Stiles doesn't need to go through all of it again now, with his dad. Because his dad gets him, gets Stiles better than anyone when there are no lies, no secrets, no omissions, no barriers of any kind between them, barricading, limiting their communication.

Stiles has pretty much reported, cop-style, all the things that have happened. Starting with Scott getting bitten that night they'd gone looking for half of Derek's sister's body, to Derek's uncle going homicidal-crazed every two days and getting back to comatose the next instant, to the arrival of Allison's family ("―who are werewolf hunters, Dad! Can you believe that?") to Beacon Hills, to the much deserved deaths of Kate Argent and Peter Hale ("You set _who_ on fire with _what_?!") and, more recently, the appearance of a werelizard ("... _Seriously_?" "Yup!").

The bottle of scotch is taking a toll but his dad is clearly sober and darkly amused due to Stiles' inability to even get hammered anymore.

Stiles has also spoken to the Sheriff of Jackson's involvement on the whole shebang and of Lydia's apparent and mysterious immunity to Lycanthropy.

"Derek Hale," the Sheriff wonders aloud.

"Mm," says Stiles as an acknowledgment.

"'Suppose I have no real reason to keep ridding that boy so hard now. With a past like his I never really enjoyed having to, but... that attitude of his... it does get on a person's nerves," says the Sheriff, sags his elbows on the table and closes one eye, half squinting at Stiles.

Stiles huffs, amused. "Don't I know it." And then he pipes with a "You've 'rode' Derek 'hard', huh?" and made a terrible undulation-wriggle with both eyebrows.

His dad fixes him with a glare, as if daring Stiles to go down that road. Stiles just chuckles and, sadly and against what his misfit of a gut tells him, does not. His dad already knows about Monkshood and its effects. It's no joking matter!

The Sheriff puts his tumbler down, the amber liquid waving with it. He rests his chin on one hand, work-tired but truly interested and all father-concerned. He's looking at Stiles but he's not looking _at him_ , right this second. Stiles knows. _He's thinking about mom_.

So Stiles closes his eyes and thinks of her too. Imagines what she'd say to dad, to Stiles, to both of them, about all of this. That's what Stiles is thinking about; is what his dad is thinking about.

"I want to meet this "pack" of yours," Stiles' dad tells him quietly but with no lack of authority. It's not a request and Stiles knows it. "And I want to have a conversation with Hale."

Well. At least it's not "Derek Hale" with a stormy aura around the full name anymore, like it had been every single time his dad had mentioned Derek before this talk. Baby steps, baby steps.

"Yeah," Stiles breathes. "Yeah..."

When Stiles opens his eyes then, his dad's watching him like he's always done. There's not a spark less of love there. It makes Stiles' heart swell. God, his dad is great. My _God_ , he's the freaking _greatest_.

The Sheriff dances around what he wants to say next for a bit and Stiles gets impatient for it. "Is there..." the Sheriff starts. "Is there anything else― _anything at all_ ―you want to tell me, son?"

And Stiles can tell the interest is genuine; the worry, the caring. He can also tell how "afloat" his dad's still feeling with all this dispatch of information. Can tell the Sheriff, being the Sheriff, is most likely processing every bit of intel, categorizing, planning what to do now, how to proceed.

And Stiles can feel how impossible-to-hide happy his dad is that they're talking again, and communicating, putting everything on the table, _what you see is what you get_. How _proud_ his dad is that Stiles isn't lying to him anymore, nor hiding and not asking for help if needed.

So much happier and prouder than when Stiles had first informed the Sheriff he'd get to be first-line. So. Much. More.

Stiles bites his cheeks' insides and blinks and commands his lacrymal glands to stay put and rises from the chair at the same time his dad does. They fall into each other's arms in a graceless, breath-taking, warm―so, so warm―hug.

"Not yet," Stiles whispers over his dad's shoulder. "But when there is I will, I'll tell. Everything. From now on I'll―"

"Okay. It's okay, son. Stiles, it's okay..."

Why is his dad coddling him, Stiles wonders. Why is he cradling Stiles' head like one would a baby's and caressing fondly over his back and―

...Ah. 'Cause he's crying after all, isn't he? There are tears streaming down Stiles' face and he's pressing into the comfort of his dad's always present shoulder and he's crying on it―more like _bawling_ into it―and grasping the back of the Sheriff's jacket with a sort of desperation Stiles doesn't usually experience outside of panic attacks.

It's like a cleansing, from the inside-out. Body and mind. The weight of the decision, the change, the consequences, the fears, to doubts. The weight of all the crap that Stiles needn't have worried himself sick about comes flowing out, like a waterfall. It's terrifying and simultaneously the best, most amazing feeling ever.

Then there's a gallon of milk, from which Stiles gets to drink directly from, and a huge-as-fuck box of curly fries and bacon, lots of bacon and two or three variations of red-meat. Because it's a night of full-disclosure and new beginnings, it's the start of a new phase of their lives, so they get to be a bit piggish (Stiles) and clog their arteries (the Sheriff) to accompany the transition. Like a glass of water to chug a 1g pill down.

They're on the sofa watching re-runs of _Doctor Who_ when Stiles says, "By the way, Derek has this thing he does where he hops my window like, whenever he feels like. We also share my wardrobe. And apparently my bed. To sleep on. At the same time. Anyway, my whole room is now totally shared territory, I guess," without taking his eyes off of the Daleks.

His dad doesn't cough. He does _try_ to but it's so choked and involuntary yet forced at the same time it sounds like a duck noise. And he doesn't sway from the TV either. "You're _sure_ there isn't anything else I need to know..."

 _God_. When Stiles starts giving Derek those question-mark-here lessons his dad's totally assisting too.

"Nope."

His dad gives him The Look.

" _Not yet_ , I said," Stiles squeaks. "Not. Yet."

The Sheriff raises his hands in a silent _what did I do to deserve a Stiles_? and sighs and rubs his nose-bridge and continues watching the show. "I think perhaps I want to go over that no-secrets-from-here-on clause," says the Sheriff. "I don't think I want to know about the two of you. That way. And what you'll get into. _Ever_ ," he adds, making sure of making it emphatic and strong-willed and definite.

"Lies," Stiles calls it. "You totally want to know everything, about everything, all the the time."

The Sheriff denies nothing. "That sounds like you."

Stiles smirks. "Right?"

First rule of the Stilinskis: you're born a Stilinski, you won't die as anything other but a Stilinski.

―

The next few days go by in a rush; at least that's what Stiles' perception device thinks of it.

His dad meets the pack on his day-off, which leads to a very awkward after-school snack at the Stilinski house, and on the very next day the Sheriff leaves work after finishing his late-night shift and heads to the train wreckage Derek insists on keeping. Because the dude's secretly a hobo, only not so secretly as Derek himself might think.

The Sheriff doesn't want Stiles listening in on them for some reason―or just pure obnoxiousness, could _be_! Otherwise he'd have simply pulled Derek aside the day before and had that—that _u~uhh~~_ "conversation" right then and there, as simple as that.

But _nnoooo_.

Because the Sheriff knows _all_ about _everything_ now, or as much as he'd squeezed out of the pack, and boy, did he treat them like lemons. Or oranges. Or any type of citrus of your choice, not a problem for Stiles. And he's well aware of the sensorial heightening that comes with the turning, specially the hearing. So yeah, the Sheriff knows what being a wolf-boy— _and_ wolf-girl, yeah, Stiles profusely apologizes Erica, mighty queen, please don't get mad, no discrimination was intended!—, is all about.

The thing is, Stiles would've gone anyway and his dad would've had no clue, but. But _Derek_. Derek has decided this is to be a 2 VS. 1 play and says "No, Stiles. _No_ ," and he sounds like he's telling his dog to sit and stay put and be a good boy. And, heh. Derek really should know better than that by now. Stiles hates being Robin. Stiles hates waiting in the car.

So, uh. Of course Stiles ends up going anyway. And when he gets there, when he parks next to the metal-scrappy, big-sized carriage the thing's empty. E - m - p - t - y. In conclusion, the victory goes _fooor_ : the tag-team composed of Sheriff Stilinski and Derek Hale―pet-called The Ultimate Clusterfuck. Due of obvious reasons, Stiles would think.

But hold your horses, cowboy! 'cause winning one battle _is not even_ _ **close**_ to winning the war. And Stiles is pumped up then, really pumped up for the second round.

...Until all of it goes down the drain, the pipe, yes it does. Because they're not at the Hale house either, so yeah. Sucker-punch move. The Camaro's there and the ghost building hasn't moved from its phantasmagoric place and it's divested of life-forms, with the exception of insects and microscopic organisms.

The options aren't many and Stiles is no fool. He knows exactly what's happened here. He's clearly missed his timing completely, that wrapped-in-mystery conversation's been had ages (hours, minutes) ago and Derek has already literally _ruuun to thee hiiillss, ruunn foo-oor_ _ **his**_ _lii-iifeee~~_ and gone for his mid-of the-night jog in the woods, and Stiles' dad―

―Stiles' dad has probably gotten home already, smirking and scoffing behind Stiles' back, getting one on him while Stiles himself's been spinning around in circles.

Oohh, the bitter after-taste of getting owned _sucks_. The Ultimate Clusterfuck will pay for this to him, Stiles swears right then.

So.

 _That_ had been the one conversation Stiles had actually wanted to listen to and gotten denied. And then, the following day―which is already this day, it's _today_ , holy fucking shit! Today there is a conversation to be had that Stiles' doesn't want _to have_ _ **to have**_ in the first place. But. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the common and greater good.

(...Screw the common and greater good. The Stiles is far more important. But The Stiles is also a creature with a heart of gold. So everyone knows how the "screw the big picture when the smaller picture is me" momentary expression of rebellion is gonna go.)

And all's well, really, when Allison takes it in stride—she _is_ a born badass after all—and swears to not say anything to anyone, specially not to her family, even if her grandfather goes to certain lengths yet again to get info out of her.

Allison's great, she's great and Stiles likes her, really, a lot, but he still makes her make all sorts of royal promises. It makes her laugh, cheeks pierced with dimples and red stretched lips and dark curly hair and Stiles has a thought that she'd make a fantastic Snow White though she'd get to have the hunter's skills, ha. And she'd be the Prince's savior, not his savee. 'Cause Scott would be the one dumb enough to bite the poisoned apple. Totally.

(And Allison's mother couldn't be a more frighteningly perfect fit for the evil-stepmother-witch but _that_ Stiles _really_ works on keeping to himself. The wolf got a bigger mouth but has also more control over it which. Stiles is truly grateful for. He doesn't want to be arrow-ed to the ground so soon into his wolflihood.)

Stiles makes Allison do everything from childish pinky-swears to spit-and-handshake. ("Gross! _Stiles_! Don't do it, Allison, you don't have to―!" "It's for Stiles, Scott. It's fun, see?")

Stiles makes her do everything short of a blood pact.

Stiles, because he's Stiles, gets the thought stuck on his brain―right on that slippery curve around the soft gray mass, _riigghht_ on the area next to the cerebellum. What would the ramifications be, of trading blood droplets between a human and a werewolf? To trigger the shift either teeth or clawing need to be involved somehow but _still_.

...Would anything happen? Anything at all...?

―

Also, the whole _we're mean bikers without actual motorcycles to ride on_ look the pack has going? Or should they really start going by "gang"? No, really, Stiles wants to know! With all the killer swag and creepy smiles and leather jackets? Is Stiles supposed to get into the trend or...?

'Cause Stiles is sure he can pull some weird-ass smiling face and he does likes the occasional "look at me, I'm dark and dangerous" jacket as much as the next guy so he can like, compromise to wear it once a month or something. But he likes the way he dresses, okay. It's part of what makes Stiles so remarkably _Stiles_ some.

(Stiles = Awe ↔ Stiles + some = Stilessome = Awesome. Get it? Goodie.)

The slow-motion, lockers-clawing, Walk of Doom though, Stiles can do without, thank you for your patronage, good sire, don't forget to come back!

 _Yeah_.

―

Derek had forced kanima-paralyzing-yuckiness down Jackson's throat and watched as Jackson ended up unable to move. Which, according to Erica, had been a very, very sexy Derek-scene, what with the black leather gloves. And Stiles doesn't doubt Derek's sexiness, not one bit, specially with the Dexter Morgan-like portrait Erica paints on his retina so go ahead and sue Stiles for having a crush on well-intentioned, emotionally-stunted, hot-as-all-fuck, blood-lusty serial killer types, just you sue him!

Unfortunately, the conclusion one could take from said results was that it wasn't Jackson's venom, therefore Jackson isn't the creature they've been looking for. In spite of that, Derek's unshakably convinced that just because Jackson isn't _that_ specific werelizard, that doesn't mean he's not one as well.

With that failure at discovering the kanima's identity... the suspicion falls to _Lydia_ and―

(And wouldn't _that_ be cute: an ex-couple of lizardy shape-shifters terrorizing the town? Yeah, no.)

―and Derek wants to _end_ the problem immediately, Erica and Isaac irradiating murderous intent around the school corridors. So when Scott says he's gonna go and try to dissuade Derek from going straight for the kill, Stiles sighs and says "Wait, I'm coming with," while Allison takes Lydia and Jackson over to Scott's as a contingency plan. ("A _what_ plan?" "B, Scott. Plan B.")

My _God_ , doesn't _anyone_ know about risk management around here?

Stiles goes along because butchering Jackson's all fine and dandy, Stiles is totally in on that, has always been, has thrown the idea in the air and around himself and _not_ for comic relief, believe it.

But not Lydia, man. Not her. Stiles just―he just _knows_ it's not her.

―

Scott is unsuccessful at getting their point across though he does succeed in getting into a kinder garden-style, push-and-shove match with Boyd, who'd _so_ have a stage name along the lines of "The Wall" on _WWE_.

"Even _Stiles_ calls it cold-blooded," says Derek to Scott and Scott doesn't say anything because... it's not a lie so, what to say to that?

Oh, and Stiles? He could go with a little bit less snake-hissing when Derek says his name. Gives him the chills. And he's not ready to explore what kind of chills those chills are. They're wicked chills. So lets take it easy on the snake-sounds there, Derek's a wolf isn't he, he should behave himself like such, and...

...On second thought, having his name growled isn't such a good idea either. To be completely truthful it's a bad idea, Stiles. Bad _bad_ _ **bad**_ idea!

Stiles strokes a hand over his own face, meshing lips and nose in a _you two are killing meeee_ message, his other hand lands on his hip. He steps forward, closer to Boyd and Derek.

"It's not Lydia, Derek. S'not her."

 _Listen to me, believe me,_ _ **trust me**_. And those embarrassing lines (thoughts) that sound like they've been ripped out of some romance-drama-tragedy flick script? Those Stiles doesn't say out loud, because. _Because_. Because _Derek_. Because it's a fragile thing yet, their bond, and Stiles wants to keep it, wants to level it up with hard work, long hours of gaming and slaying monsters and not use any cheating codes at all. No improper, embarrassment-inducing dialogue either included either, preferably.

Derek exhales a bit too rowdily (what? Stiles' ears are sensitive, okay?), his lips tight, eyes piercing.

"She didn't get affected by the poison," Derek presses the words once more.

"I _know_. But... but what Scott told you about, the immunity theory, it can be true. You said it yourself, Derek, you said you'd never heard of anything like that happening. But that doesn't mean it _can't_. Fuck man, _werewolves are real_. After that... what's there _not_ to believe?" Stiles also doesn't mention nor does he appeal to the doubt he saw in Derek's flickering expression when Scott first laid out the hypothesis of Lydia being immune. No cheating.

Derek fixes him solidly with his cool gaze and Stiles fights not to kneel at the feet of his Alpha (figuratively dude, figuratively!) and not question his authority and his will. But this is what the two of them went into this for, right? Stiles is to be unspokenly Derek's second, the strategy-geek, is to keep the pack on the right track. That's what _Stiles has decided_ to do. It's what _Derek_ _expects_ him to do, I'm-the-Alpha and extremely-territorial-dominant-male complexes aside.

Derek seems to find what he's been searching for in the pools of Stiles' eyes because he nods once then, tight and firm and curt and Stiles had to bite his lips to not break in a grin and tease Derek with a "I knew thou trusted my humble self the most, Sir Hale. Which. Totally breaches the fence of improper, embarrassment-inducing dialogue. Doesn't it? It does. As one not-so-wise, half-wolf-half man once said: no trespassing private private property. Not respecting boundaries is an awful thing to do.

Stiles _has never_ done anything like that, is _not even capable_ of such an act, _will never_ attempt or have the uncontrollable urge to do such a thing!

Stiles is also not a step away from becoming a compulsive liar. Nope.

Shoulders stiff, Derek says, "If you're sure―"

" _Completely_ sure." Stiles maintains eye-contact, figures it's the best way together with his cardiac rhythm to convey his standing.

Derek doesn't sound ecstatic but his body relaxes the tiniest bit. "―lay the plan, then."

Boyd and Scott are still completely _still_ , watching him and Derek interact the closest to amicably and non-violently as they've ever in presence of others. Boyd keeps his composure, not impressed, has a smile curving his mouth, listening attentively. Scott is, well. He's shell-shocked, gaping like a fish until Stiles shakes him a bit, shakes him out of it.

―

Stiles can listen to it all: JackASSon being a complete douchebag to Lydia, accusing her of entering his house and altering his freaking ego-booster recording, demanding his key back.

He can hear it, can tell it's a lie, just as Jackson can, that Lydia doesn't hate Jackson, doesn't hate him at all, not even a little bit. Stiles can hear her hiccups, can picture her crying face perfectly in his mind, her make-up blurring shaky lines down her cheeks, her full lower lip trembling.

Wanting to crack his head against the wall is a steadily increasing urge and when they start kissing that's exactly what Stiles does.

Then, brain on brick, he realizes he's not okay, not at all, but not as "not okay" as he should be. He's hurt (again), he's heartbroken (again), he's _hurt_ ( _ **again**_ ), he's angry (again), he's jealous (again), he's...

...Yeah, maybe he's totally not okay, totally not okay at all, like he thought he was meant to be and thought maybe wasn't.

One's own mind pulls the nastiest tricks. It's like a wound: it's fine while it's still warmth from the blow but as it starts losing heat, as it starts to cool down... that's when it feels like falling from the bed while asleep and being caught it a rainstorm of shallow, painful-as-fuck paper-cuts and getting all your nails pinched on a door and biting your own tongue and getting kicked in the nuts.

All of it. All at the same time. That's what being "not okay" feels like to Stiles.

 _Shit_. Stiles wishes it didn't have hurt so much to feel his own heart breaking.

His forehead's freezing from the wall, on fire from the pain. He whacks his head against the solid structure once again, decides he's done, this is the last day; if he's gonna keep hurting it's not gonna be because of such a thing anymore. Today's the last day. He's glad the sun's already setting.

There's a thud, then, and Lydia startles in a concerned tone of voice.

Should have been their cue.

Jackson had all of a sudden started agonizing with a headache and while she'd gone in search for something for him to take he'd taken off, Lydia tells them. By the time she'd come back Jackson was gone and the window had been left open.

Stiles and Allison run outside as Lydia remains by the door, a confused look on her face.

Scott's arguing heatedly with Derek about something but everyone looks up at the same time, necks almost snapping with the speed, spotting the source of the slithering sound on the roof.

They get to see the kanima's tail just disappearing around the chimney and then he's nowhere, unattainable, like nothingness.

When Stiles is standing there, watching Allison gathering a tearing-up Lydia inside Scott's house to tell her everything, he must be giving off worrisome vibes because Derek gets restless. Stiles knows-feels-senses Derek getting restless a couple of feet behind him. He doesn't know _how_ , he just―it's not really a _feeling_ , it's more like the information surges from inside his own brain with no interference from the outside.

Derek hesitates, Stiles feels―no, he just. Again, he. _God_! _Gets_ it? Is that the word for it? Stiles _gets_ Derek's restlessness, _gets_ the tight grip he has on his own fists by his sides. He _gets_ it when Derek gives up on the thought of letting a hand rest on the back of Stiles' neck, when he gives up on purposefully touching and just comes close, hip-to-hip with Stiles, with just more or less two inches of height on him.

Stiles doesn't startle―he mostly impossibly predicted it all―, but he stills for a second before turning slightly, just enough to see Derek's profile by the corner of his eye. The side of Stiles' lip curls up, which must go horribly with the grim look he's sporting but it's not like it matters. Derek isn't looking at him.

Stiles hopes Derek can _get_ the _thanks for silent the support, I appreciate it_ kind of glance he's throwing at him through his peripheral vision anyway.

―

"It's not that I love her. " Stiles' voice doesn't break, he doesn't allow it to. "Though I do. It's that I've always _been in love_ with her since I was a kid. It just. Hurts. Letting go of years of one-sided attachment that... I don't even know what it was. A thought stuck in my head, stuck on a loop. It was never going to go anywhere but round and round and I knew it, I _knew_ but."

His dad listens to his every word, reading what's on the surface and trying to listen to everything of what wallows beneath it both.

"Hurts so freaking _bad_ ," Stiles says in a zoned-out tone, as if he's talking about someone else, as if he's watching the drama of his life from the other side of an LCD flat screen.

The Sheriff looks equally out of it, but he's there. He's _there_. For Stiles. He's even eating his veggies without complaining! Stiles knows his dad's there for him, has not a single doubt.

Stiles wants to cry. Bawl his eyes out, maybe get his nose stuffy with snot and be all yucky with a major migraine tap-dancing on his frontal lobes.

But he can't even do that. His internal canals seem to have entered a manifestation for their rights or dried up, or. Whatever.

"And it hurts that _I'm not_ anymore, I think―I. I'm not. I'm not anymore." Stiles plays with his food with a spoon, lacrosses the peas and looks at the white circle that he empties, right on the center of the plate and thinks that what his chest must've done too. Ribs crooking and shoving Lydia away 'cause she just kept on making his ventricle and atria four-way structure hurt.

He rakes his teeth over his upper lip. "What hurts the most is realizing that, maybe. That I haven't for, I don't know, a little while. Or a long while. Hell if I know. I'm just not. I'm not. Not anymore," he repeats for his dad, replays for himself. When he looks up it's hazy but not wet and confusing but not unbearable and there's his dad with understanding eyes and sad but relieved expression and what does that mean? What does it all mean?

"I know, son," the Sheriff smiles small, smiles soft, carves a broccoli with his fork. "I know." His words are in reply to Stiles' confession, to his pain. But then they're not, they're redirecting to something else entirely.

And Stiles doesn't know. He doesn't know what his dad knows. But he sounds so sure, his dad sounds so damn sure of it, of himself as he says it that Stiles can't help but believe he'll know it too. That he'll know it sooner than he thinks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It got pretty lengthy and there was too little interaction between Stiles and Derek for my taste, but I wanted to start getting "the wolves out of the bag" for everyone and get that out of the way so I can move on to what matters. (And then it got kinda angsty and how did I do that, why would I do that to Stiles?!) Now next part's gonna be FUN because: Jungle! Danny! UST!


End file.
